


you light my way in the dark

by knoxoursavior



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: AU, M/M, Q has hallucinations, of flowers mostly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:50:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knoxoursavior/pseuds/knoxoursavior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q sees things others don't, sees his every thought and feeling embodied by flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you light my way in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> title from lenny kravitz's i belong to you. many, many thanks to [mistflyer1102](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistflyer1102/pseuds/Mistflyer1102) (also, her [tumblr](http://mistflyer1102.tumblr.com)) for reading over this and being a wonderful and meticulous beta. ;u;
> 
> flower meanings are at the end notes, but they're also at [gdocs](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Nj4Af5myqcXkj6Zv2Z0Dx18mnp_Lnkla7TlrSz9zYKY/edit?usp=sharing) and [pastebin](http://pastebin.com/6DLhDB7Y) if you wanna have it open in another tab or window.

Sometimes, when Q walks outside, when he's heading to the Tube or when he's out to buy groceries, the cold stone pavement turns into a bed of soft cyclamens that paint the ground a pale pink. They're fragile little things, and whenever he steps on them, they disintegrate into ash, leaving a trail of dull gray footprints in his wake. It’s beautiful, Q thinks, and he can’t help but stare.

There’s a petal that catches his eye, half-burnt and looking almost transparent in its feebleness. It flutters from his feet, mimicking the wind, brushing lightly against Q's cold skin. He closes his eyes and remembers the sensation, remembers the touch, laughs at how different it feels from another person’s caress.

It doesn’t send a jolt up his spine, doesn’t make his heart beat faster, doesn’t catch him off guard so he sucks in a breath of pleasant surprise. It isn’t the same as a gentle stroke against the inside of his wrist or a warm embrace. It feels cold and empty, but still, it's the closest Q has gotten to touch. There isn't anyone, not anyone who likes him enough, who can touch him, make him feel that way. He’s alone in a city full of people, and all he has to feel are lifeless blossoms whose beauty does nothing to lift his spirits.

 

*

 

“007, this is important. You must do exactly as I say—”

“Or I get ripped to pieces by lions,” Bond barks, cutting Q off. “Yes, I figured. Just get me out of here.”

“Do not run and do not make any sudden movements. Maintain eye contact at all times,” Q says, keeping his voice authoritative and collected as he opens window after window of information on what to do when a lion is about to attack. “Do you have a weapon, 007?”

“I have my Walther out,” Bond replies.

Q jerks back from the keyboard in bewilderment. “That’s a surprise. Please do make sure it survives the rest of your mission,” he says, and his eyes are still flying over the screen, taking note of all the consistent information. “Take off your jacket.”

“What?” Bond asks incredulously, and even though he seems to glow with distress because of the erratic mix of bright, blinding red and onyx black vines wrapped protectively around his body, he manages to sound as calm as ever.

“That’s good. Keep doing that. Talk about cars—I don’t really care,” Q says, watching Bond through the zoo’s security feed. The lion is no more than thirty meters from the agent, and it growls threateningly, sizing Bond up. Its mane is golden yellow and its body is dull brown blending into stark black near the stomach. It’s hungry, Q thinks, not just for meat but for the hunt. “Take off your jacket and wave it behind you. Make yourself look bigger.”

He watches as Bond does as he says, watches as the lion pauses in its steps. “Alright, now back away slowly. I’ll have the gate ready to close.”

Bond’s shoes slide against cold metal, crushing the pink oleanders flecked with blood red scattered in all the zoo’s cages. The lion isn’t distracted for long, though; only moments after, it’s back to stalking Bond, the look in its eyes predatory. Bond tenses, decides to take a risk and jump back the rest of the way, his back scraping against the cemented floor outside the cage. Q has never been so thankful for his video game-practiced reflexes as when the lion raises a paw to strike, face twisted in fury and lips curled in hunger.

There’s a collective sigh of relief from Q Branch, and a slumping of shoulders from Q himself. The air around him settles into a gentle pastel blue breeze, ghosting over his skin to comfort him.

“007, are you alright?” he says into the microphone. He doesn’t really need to; he can see the way Bond favors his left leg, see the blood gushing out of Bond’s ear where a knife grazed him. Still, Q wants to _hear_ it.

“Nothing a bottle of whisky won’t fix,” Bond remarks. “Do I go after Cervenka?”

“He’s too far out for you. I’m going to arrange for his car to explode,” Q says. “The Medevac team will arrive at your location in ten minutes. Do try not to antagonize them, 007.”

“I wouldn’t be James Bond if I didn’t scare the wits out of them,” Bond retorts, and Q doesn’t have to look at the feed to know he’s smiling.

Q sighs. “No, you wouldn’t. At least get on the helicopter without any fuss. Frankly, I’m sick of getting called to Medical just because I sent one of their people to, I quote, eventual doom.”

“It’s not my fault they don’t take criticism well,” Bond says. Now he’s taken a seat facing the cage, making faces at the lion as if to mock it. It only makes Q roll his eyes.

“If that’s what you call criticism, Bond, I shudder to think what people would be reduced to when you insult them,” Q says, though it comes off as a bit distracted as he stares at the daisies floating over Bond’s head like a halo.

“Can’t you book me a flight home instead? I won’t have anything to do on a helicopter,” Bond says easily, as if he expects Q to attend to his every whim.

“If you want to spend an hour and a half sitting next to an eight year old boy who likes to talk about Transformers and has a history of vomiting after turbulence, I will gladly book you a flight for tonight,” Q deadpans. He sees the minute twitching of Bond’s eyebrow and can’t help the smugness that flares in the base of his spine.

“Don’t be surprised if I terrorize the pilot into letting me fly the helicopter.”

“Someday, Bond,” Q says tiredly. “Someday, I am going to get you myself and I swear to God, I will drag you by the ear all the way home.”

“You'd have to ride a plane for that.” Bond clucks his tongue. “Too bad, quartermaster.”

Q sighs. “Medevac in seven minutes. I'm signing off, 007. R will debrief you when you get back to London.”

“I didn't think you ever left Six.”

“Goodbye, Bond,” Q says, ignoring the agent's attempt to rile him up again, delay him. He pretends to fiddle with the windows on the screen long enough to see Bond smile, orange roses raining gently around him.

 

*

 

There’s a party going on in the flat across his, Q thinks. Their lights are flashing pink and blue on his veranda, and music is blaring obnoxiously at the highest volume. He sees angry red scratches on his peach walls, and his neighbor’s bright fireworks cast eerie shadows on his window. People come and go, shouting obscenities and spilling alcohol all over the hallway, disturbing the peace, the stillness that exists only in the dark.

Q frowns, contemplates going over there and telling them off for the noise but decides against it when he feels his shoulders getting heavy with fatigue. He listens to his body, acknowledges how he’s aching all over, how sleep nags ceaselessly at him, demanding his whole attention.

He barely makes it to his bed, barely remembers to at least take off his shoes, and once he’s draped a blanket over himself, he barely knows what it means to _move_. He closes his eyes—to rest, he says to himself, because he has to brush his teeth and change his clothes—and when he opens them again, it’s pitch dark.

He can’t tell where he is, can’t tell anything, really. He tries to feel around, takes a cautious step forward and discovers that he’s standing on level ground. He walks on, slowly at first, gradually speeding up as he gets more and more annoyed, desperate because he feels like he’s going in _circles_.

His chest hurts, and he feels like his throat is bleeding red, and then he realizes just how much, how loudly he's screaming. His legs give way beneath him eventually, and he starts tearing up in frustration. His heart crumbles, breaks into brittle little pieces when he remembers that there isn’t anything to see, no vision that blurs because there isn’t anything else except the _dark_.

So Q lies down, closes his eyes, and waits, waits for the darkness to lift, waits for a jolt that will pull him out of this nightmare. The light _does_ come, in the end, but not as he hoped. It’s weak, barely there, flickering softly in the distance, but his heart swells in relief, and he feels lighter, less agitated. He stands up, stumbles, and all but runs towards it, towards his only hope.

The light, he realizes, is a ball of fire floating at eye level. It's coloured ice blue, looking so harsh yet so beautiful, and when Q reaches out to touch it, it lashes out, white hot against his pale palm. Something bursts inside him, something that makes him jerk forward and take it in his hands. The pain slowly morphs into nothingness, a tingling sensation that goes from the tip of his fingers to the base of his spine, teasing him. It's pleasantly warm now, silk sliding over his burnt skin as if in apology. Q tries to pull it in further, so that he can wrap himself around it and let the sensation ripple throughout his body.

He puts in every single ounce of force he has in his slight frame, and pulls, pulls, pulls until the ball is ripped away from its place. Q's eyes crinkle in joy, relief, pride, and he stares curiously at the way the fire flickers, like soft whispers, light kisses, playful nibbles tickling the pads of his fingers.

The next day, even after two cups of Earl Grey, Q still feels faint tingling in his limbs.

 

*

 

Q Branch is a bed of blue hyacinths. Everyone has different flowers in his crown, but the only thing they all have in common is a clematis flower, and Q feels proud whenever he sees one in passing. He knows from experience that he gets along well with clematis-clad people. They're always so creative, almost always capable of keeping up with him, and it does wonders for his confidence as a quartermaster that he can rely on the people he works with.

Whenever Bond walks into Q's humble nest of boffins, he leaves a trail of flowers—bluestars the same shade as his eyes, striking enough to stand out from the hyacinths, bright white zinnias, and a few dainty lavender heathers scattered about. It's distracting, and Q can't help but follow him with his eyes whenever he's wandering about in Q Branch, glowering at the techs and basking in their terror. Q doesn't realize how bad it gets until R has to snap him out of his staring.

“Sir,” she says, “your tea is getting cold. Should I fetch you another cup?”

“What?” Q blinks, noticing R and her crown of pure white orchids for the first time. “Beg pardon?”

“Shall I get you another cuppa, sir?” R repeats.

Q glances at his half-full mug on his desk, his lips twisting into a frown. “Yes, thank you.”

When R comes back with a steaming mug of Earl Grey, she has to clear her throat to make him tear his eyes away from the way Bond's halo of daisies bounce as he nods along to one of his subordinate's explaining how one of the exploding cufflinks works.

“How's the Serbian government, sir?” she says, and Q's never been so grateful for her subtlety.

“I don't know about that, but their security is still as pitiful as ever,” Q replies, easily slipping back into his code.

“Every security system is pitiful to you,” R says fondly.

“Flattery gets you everywhere in Q Branch.” Q's lips quirk into a small smile. “Thank you, R.”

“Drink your tea before it gets cold again,” she says before walking away to her own station, probably to get started on those blueprints for a weaponised Aston Martin.

Before Q could wonder if he really was so obvious, Bond sidles up next to him, smirking.

“You're making an exploding pen,” he says.

“Did Bennett tell you?” Q sighs. “I suppose he won't be getting a stocking this Christmas.”

“You're making an exploding pen,” Bond repeats. Then, “I thought you said you didn't go in for that anymore.”

“Yes, well, someone was quite insistent,” Q says, barely resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “I recall ten straight months of Q Branch evaluations returning with requests for an exploding pen.”

“Sounds like it's in demand,” Bond says wryly.

“Yes, well, I don't know how you managed it,” Q says, his tone dry, “but now, M has it tagged as high priority.”

“I didn't do anything,” Bond says, and if Q didn't know him, he'd probably fall for it.

“Why are you here, Bond?” he says, because their conversation wouldn't have gone anywhere anyway. “And please don't attempt to charm me by saying we're your favorite branch. Not nearly enough women in here.”

Bond doesn't look the least bit ruffled at his words. “I liked that Rolex camera you gave me for my last mission.”

“Yes, and then you went and lost it in an explosion,” Q deadpans.

“I didn't.” Bond takes out a sad little chunk of metal that is no doubt the very same watch he was outfitted. It's damaged and Q is going to have to spend a considerable amount of money on repairing it, but it's better than starting over from scratch.

“007, I should have been given this two weeks ago,” Q says, taking the watch in his hands, holding it gently, gingerly. He's gaping quite a bit, and he can't be bothered to hide his bewilderment, too busy poking at the charred but intact piece of equipment.

“I wanted to surprise you,” Bond says.

Q blinks. “Why would you want to do that?”

“It’s your birthday today,” Bond says, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “You did remember, right?”

“My birthday,” Q muses, his expression twisting into a mix of confusion and concentration. “Well, that explains why Eve left me a message on my phone this morning.”

She didn't greet him a happy birthday so Q can't be blamed for not realizing it sooner. All she said was: _we're going out for a drink later and we're going to find you a man. no half-arsed excuses, Q._ He just assumed that it was their mandatory monthly night out.

“You do realize your minions have left gifts on your table?” Bond says softly, gesturing at the pile of envelopes and a huge green-wrapped box lying innocently beside his laptop. They're sitting under a blanket of purple betonies, and really, Q should have noticed them sooner, considering the fact that betonies are wildflowers.

“Oh.” Q brushes away the flowers and picks the box up, shaking it gently just in case his subordinates decided to give him a bomb. Q Branch does so love watching things explode. “Well.”

“You're impossible,” Bond says, smiling openly now.

“I'm not impossible.” Q rolls his eyes. “And you could have gotten me socks. You didn't have to make me think I lost another gadget.”

“I don't know where to buy the socks you like to wear,” Bond says, raising an eyebrow in amusement. Of course, he's talking about Q's animal-printed socks. They were all he could afford back when he was still a rogue hacker taking odd jobs from anyone who was willing to pay. “I did get you a coat, though. I despise your parka.”

Q's lips turn downwards into a cross between a frown and a pout. “Excuse me, but that parka happens to be very useful.”

“And also very unflattering. I bought you a coat that is both fashionable and useful.”

“I bet it's not waterproof,” Q grumbles, his shoulders slumping as he goes back to work.

“It isn't, but that's what umbrellas are for.”

Q tries his best not to appear ruffled. He likes to think he's good at putting a mask on and pretending he's cool-headed, especially since he's hidden his hallucinations from even the best of Medical during psych evals, but Bond is different. He reads people for a living, and Q always feels like squirming under his gaze.

“Thank you for your gifts, 007. If you've nothing else to say or do, you know where the exit is,” Q says.

“Don't go with Eve tonight,” Bond says, and just when Q is about to tell him off—of course, he'd rather not waste time in a pub, but Eve is his best friend of sorts and he's not about to say no to her—the agent continues, “Have dinner with me instead.”

“I'm sorry?” Q's hand twitches, itching to reach for his phone so he could send a cry for help to Eve. He glances around Q Branch only to find his subordinates staring pointedly at their screens, trying to look as occupied as possible. Only R raises her head to wink at him, because while she's subtle about pulling him back into his work, she also has the gall to tease him about his next to nonexistent love life.

“Dinner,” Bond repeats, “where we wear suits and sit across each other and talk over the candle light.”

“But I don't have a decent suit,” Q says dumbly.

Bond smiles fondly, as if he expected it already. “I know for a fact that Eve bought you a tailored suit as a gift. Got your measurements straight from Medical.”

“Those traitors,” Q hisses, because he's fairly sure his file is supposed to be inaccessible to everyone but M. Then again, he _is_ in the business of espionage; he shouldn't be so surprised.

“She only has your best interests at heart,” Bond says, and then he steps closer, so Q needs only shift a bit to his right for his shoulder to touch Bond's chest. “So. Dinner. Yes?”

“How eloquent, 007,” Q drolls. “And, fine. My shift ends at 1900.”

“Great. I've a reservation for 2000,” Bond says, raising a hand to brush his fingertips against the inside of Q's wrist. “I'll be seeing you.”

“You've planned this whole thing, haven't you?” Q says as Bond walks away, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Of course,” Bond replies easily, and Q doesn't know whether he should feel flattered that _James bloody Bond_ has taken interest in him or scared that his subordinates seem alright with—Q can say almost supportive of—their boss going on a date with a known womanizer.

It takes a while for Q to stop glaring at the rest of Q Branch. If they aren't going to warn him about these kinds of things, he might as well give in to his fancy and start calling them his minions. God knows they're all silly enough to be compared to those yellow potato-looking things in the movie.

Besides, Q can do evil genius.

 

*

 

_Sorry, E. I have to take a rain check on pub night. Already found a man._

 

_oh, is it bond? did he finally ask you out?_

 

_What do you mean, finally?_

 

_he's been pining for months, darling. please do wear my gift. you'll look ravishing in it._

 

_I can't believe you bought me a suit. You know my closet can't handle formal clothes, E._

 

_you can't live on comfortable clothes alone, Q. you need to take a break from your cardigans and jumpers._

 

_Easy for you to say. Wearing high heels is practically second nature to you. I've not worn a suit since I was six years old._

 

_oh dear. no worries! i'll be in your office right after your shift ends. do prepare yourself for a crash course on formal wear._

 

_... Fine._

 

_good boy._

 

*

 

Q knows he sees things others don't. The first time he asks someone about it is when he’s in kindergarten, playing with Otto, his classmate, on the seesaw. His homeroom teacher stands by the swings, reprimanding another classmate of his for making a girl cry. That’s why she doesn’t see it when Otto falls, doesn’t see it when angry red vines sprout from the top of his head, gradually turning into a dark purple. Dull yellow marigolds litter the ground around the seesaw, bunching up near the point where Otto's knee touches the ground.

“What’s that coming out of his head?” Q asks and his teacher startles, misunderstanding him, thinking that it’s blood he means when really, it’s all in Q's mind, abstract, unreal. His teacher punishes him at the end of the day, once his classmate has been taken to the clinic for his bruises and scrapes, and everyone has calmed down.

She takes his hand and hits it thrice with a ruler, saying, “You can’t make me nervous like that, okay? That wasn’t funny.”

Q pouts, feeling like the whole world has turned on him. “But something was coming out of his head!”

“There wasn’t. His knee got injured, not his head. You shouldn’t say things like that.” His teacher sighs sadly, putting down her ruler and kissing the back of his hand to make it better.

Q wants to argue, wants to prove his point, but looking at how desolate, how guilty his teacher looks, he stops. He sees the exact same shade of marigolds from this morning fluttering around her head, occasionally bumping against her forehead with thumps so impossibly loud, and he hopes to God that he never sees them again. Raven black butterflies get stuck in his throat, and he has to swallow to get them back in his stomach. “Okay. I won’t, I promise.”

“Good. You can go home now.”

Q gives his teacher a hug, or gives her leg a hug anyway, since he’s too short to reach anything higher than that. She smiles, and Q sees navy blue buds sprinkling from her shoulders, littering the floor soon after.

When he leaves, his heart is glowing a vivid, bright yellow.

 

*

 

“You're ready for this, Q. It's just another date,” Eve says, smoothing imaginary wrinkles on his shirt.

“Eve, stop it. I wasn't even nervous until you started making a fuss,” Q says, pushing her hands away and loosening his tie by himself. He inspects the fit of the suit, shuffling in place and taking care not to step on the circle of yellow forsythia surrounding his feet.

“Well, I can't help it! You're about to go on an actual date. None of that one night stand nonsense.” Eve crosses her arms, and when she tilts her head curiously, Q almost thinks the calla lilies on top of her head will slide right off in their fluidity. “Why aren't you even the least bit troubled?”

“Bond is...” Q pauses. He stares at his face in the mirror and notices for the first time how his nose twitches when he thinks. “Easy. I like him. I talk to him and he's become the voice in my head as much as I am his.”

“You have a relic whispering in that big brain of yours?” Eve asks, an eyebrow raised in surprise. “Must be why you've been taking all those risks during the 00 missions. M has a report ready to file in case you slip up, you know.”

“I'm glad I have his vote of confidence,” Q deadpans, rolling his eyes. “And I'll have you know, I take calculated risks.”

“All the same,” Eve says, just as the door opens to reveal Bond.

“Eve, looking lovely as ever,” he greets with a small smile. Then, he turns to Q and his eyes harden, pupils dilating as his spine straightens. “Remind me to buy you flowers. That is a good suit.”

“It's a phenomenal suit,” Eve agrees. “I'd love some snapdragons for my flat, thank you.”

“I'll have it on your doorstep tomorrow evening,” Bond promises, and then he strides towards Q, hands finding his hips. “You look amazing.”

“Thank you, Bond,” Q replies, his cheeks dusted pink. “You do as well,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, because doesn't Bond always?

“Call me James,” Bond says.

Surprise jolts up Q's spine, making him jerk back slightly. Bond only follows his movement, until their bodies are only centimeters away from each other again.

“I can't tell you my name yet,” Q says, his frown apologetic, “but you may call me Quinn for tonight. Better than my title.”

Bond only nods; he knows the risks of Q's job. “Let's go, then?”

“Are you driving us to the restaurant?” Q's eyebrows furrow. “What car are you driving now?”

“A BMW. M hasn't approved my request for an Aston Martin yet,” Bond says, sneaking a sharp look at Eve.

“Don't hold your breath,” Eve says. “Now shoo. You've only got fifteen minutes and you know traffic can be dreadful.”

Q scoffs. “It's as if you don't know me, E. Changing traffic lights is a no-brainer.”

Eve rolls her eyes. “Of course, darling.”

“Come on, then.” Q tugs Bond to the door, but not before he catches Eve grinning smugly in his periphery. He sticks his tongue out at her, not caring if he's acting like a child.

It takes them a little more than five minutes to arrive at the restaurant, and even though they're early, the staff doesn't make them wait. While they're being led to their table, Q wonders whether the quick service is because of Bond or just because of sheer luck. He almost asks, but then, he figures it could be a bit of both.

“You should buy more suits,” Bond says after they've ordered.

“No thank you,” Q says, taking a sip of his champagne. “I'm happy with my clothes.”

“No one but you is happy with your clothes, Quinn,” Bond says, and he has that fond look on his face again that makes Q's insides tingle. He remembers his dream, remembers welcoming fire, and he realizes that he's seeing it once again. Bond's eyes are ice-blue flames, and Q can't help but stare.

“You're gaping,” Bond teases, laying a callous hand over Q's. “Nervous?”

Q startles, looking down at his plate and frowning at how easily he loses focus these days. He definitely does not think about Bond's hand on his. “I'm not. You're distracting me.”

Bond raises an eyebrow. “Do I need to step out?”

“Don't be daft.” Q lightly pinches the webbed skin between Bond's thumb and forefinger. Bond grimaces at him, but he can tell it’s less from pain and more for show.

“Do you want me to ask for tea?”

Q's eyes brighten. “Oh, would you?”

“Of course,” Bond says, giving him a reassuring smile before waving a waiter over.

After Q gets his Earl Grey, things run a bit more smoothly. They don't talk about work, not really. They touch on the subject of guns and explosives, and move on to more mundane topics. Q never thought he'd see the day he discusses Doctor Who with a 00 agent, but it turns out that Bond keeps himself updated. Besides, he does nothing but drink and watch the telly when he's on forced leave.

In the middle of talking about the Shakespeare episode, Q finds out about Bond's hobby of writing. It's nothing special, the agent claims, but Q makes him agree to let him read a few pieces. In return, Q promises to play Bond a song on the piano. That gets them talking about the opera, which Bond decidedly hates; ballet, which Q has a love-hate relationship with; and musicals, which they both love.

That only gets them talking about movies, and so Q finds out about Bond's guilty pleasure—watching rom-coms and chick flicks. It helps with the women he has to seduce so Q can't really say anything bad about it, but it's still hard to imagine James Bond, Six's best of the best, huddled in a couch, watching movies like Bridget Jones's Diary and About a Boy. Of course, Bond criticises Q's affinity for action movies. He doesn't care much about the physics and the stunts, see; he, like his minions, loves a good explosion. Bond has no patience for that kind of thing.

In the end, they go back to talking about the telly. Q remembers that there's supposed to be a rerun tonight, and it isn't as if he's got anything better to do, so he invites Bond back to his flat where they end up on opposite ends of his pullout couch, legs tangled together under a thin cotton blanket.

Nothing happens except Q casually commenting on how cold it is, Bond sidling up next to him because apparently, they can't be fagged to get up to fetch another blanket, and Q letting himself be persuaded into a comfortable position with his arms wrapped loosely around Bond's waist and his head leaning against Bond's shoulder. It's easy and it's warm and Q just feels relaxed, restful.

He falls asleep to the sound of the Doctor's sonic screwdriver, the feeling of Bond's breath against his scalp, and the sight of yellow ivies falling gently to the floor.

 

*

 

Q is in an abandoned warehouse. He's tied to a chair, his wrists chaffed, and his ribs are aching so badly that he wishes he could close his eyes and drift away. He's sweating horribly, the line of his neck and the curve of his forehead glistening, and he can tell his shirt is already soaked.

He wonders, for a moment, how his kidnappers managed to take him from under Bond's thumb, or how they expect to be able to get away with it, but then he hears the voice of his childhood nightmares and his resolve crumbles instantly.

“They won't pay my price. Says it's too much,” the man says, and Q knows at the back of his mind that his name is Joe Pilcher, but now he's called Scar Man. He looks like Scar from Lion King, with olive skin and jet black hair and a stripe of brown over his left eye.

“Why do you think, huh? They don't love you enough?” Scar Man says, dragging a chair in front of Q so when he sits, they're within an arm's reach of each other. “Mine didn't love me either.”

Q's shaking badly, from the ends of his hair to the tips of his toes. He couldn't have uttered a word even if Scar Man wanted him to.

“Fuckin' useless,” Scar Man spits, and Q doesn't hesitate to nod along because he sees petunias starting to bloom on the man's temples. He knows to always agree when a person with petunias is speaking, because whenever his Mum tries to argue when Da's like that, she ends up crying in the bathroom with thorny vines digging into her arms.

“You seem like a good boy.” Scar Man takes Q's face in his hand, his grip bruising. “Maybe I'll help you out. Boys like us need to stick together, right? Answer me.”

When Q breathes a _yes_ , he does it because he doesn't want to know what would happen to his bones and his skin if he didn't. If he had any foresight, he'd more likely kill himself than watch Scar Man walk out of the warehouse, uttering promises of the good policemen saving him soon.

Now—now he's sitting in the police station, wrapped in a blanket the paramedics gave him, and seeing the mutilated bodies of his parents on the news. Suddenly, there's an angry white gust of wind, and the station, once a comforting sight full of junipers, is covered in bluebells and cypress. They fill the room quickly, until they're over Q's head, suffocating him, breaking him.

Q's eyes are wide open, but there's only darkness, only pain, only terrible, terrible anguish.

 

*

 

When Bond wakes him up, it feels like a splash of cold water. His heart is still racing, his breath still caught in his throat, and he thrashes around just to make sure he can _move_. Bond lets him and holds him and does not leave him, and Q doesn't know how he could be so lucky.

“You're still here,” he murmurs when he finally calms down. He's still wrapped in Bond's arms, his eyes once again growing heavy with exhaustion.

“I won't leave until you ask me to,” Bond says, and Q can feel a reassuring smile being pressed onto his forehead.

“Bollocks. I'd never.” Q pulls back slightly to smile at Bond, peering from beneath his fringe. It's only because of the drowsiness clinging onto his mind that Q's lips part in surprise and he says, “You have new ones again. They're very pretty. Stand out from your bluestars.”

“What do you mean?” Bond asks, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

Q smiles, a hand reaching out to touch the crown of flowers on Bond's head. “This is the first time I've seen red camellias. Much redder than ones I've seen in gardens.”

“Q, what are you talking about?”

But Q doesn't hear him, eyes fluttering closed, and he doesn't say another word until he slips away.

 

*

 

When Q wakes up again, he's on the left side of his bed, tucked in. He's also alone.

There isn't a note, and there aren't new messages on his phone besides a couple from Eve and R. The other side of the bed is cold, and the sofa looks spotless, the blanket they used last night folded neatly on one side. Q thinks for a moment, maybe Bond went out to buy breakfast, or maybe he went out for a run, so he fixes himself a cuppa and opens his laptop.

He works on the code for the AI system Q Branch is developing for field agents' cars and flats, but even after one hour, there's still no sign of Bond. So he takes a quick shower, has a quick breakfast of leftovers from two nights ago, and suffers through taking the Tube to work, all the while trying not to think about how he cocked up a good relationship so quickly.

He doesn't immediately recognise the loneliness that sinks in his bones, but when he sees the first pale pink cyclamen sitting on his desk, he can almost feel his heart breaking. In a matter of seconds, Q Branch is flooded with the wretched flowers, going up until Q's thighs, trapping him in his place. His minions don't notice, the sea of pink parting as they walk around, but Q has no choice.

So he spends the whole day in front of his laptop, wrapped up in numbers and letters, trying to ignore everything else but the dull glow of his screen. He only takes a break when R badgers him to, and even then, he only closes his eyes for ten minutes as he sips at his tea. After that, he dives right back into work. It's a quiet day. All the 00 agents out on a mission are either in deep cover or have things going easy for them, which is why there isn't really a reason for Q to talk to anyone.

His minions are as stubborn as their branch head, apparently, because at 2200, they gather in a semicircle behind him and all but manhandle him away from his laptop and out of their nest. He couldn't have fought them even if he wanted to.

So Q trudges against the cyclamens and goes home, but when he collapses on his sofa, groaning in exhaustion, he notices something on the coffee table, something that definitely isn't supposed to be there. When your day has been a monochrome of dull pink and the constant thrum of loneliness and loss in your chest, a vase of white violets and jonquils tend to stand out, especially when the air around them is vibrating, demanding attention.

“Q.”

Q sits up slowly, cautiously. “Bond,” he says, and then because he isn't sure what's real and what isn't anymore, “there are flowers on my table.”

Bond nods. “Yes.”

“White violets and jonquils?” Q asks, just to clarify.

“Yes.” Bond still hasn't moved from where he's rooted by the doorway to Q's kitchen. “What else do you see?”

Q gulps nervously. Instinct tells him to lie, just as he always has, but he doesn't _want_ to. Not to Bond. “Cyclamens. Sometimes, there are pink camellias,” he admits, and he hates those camellias most. They're painfully similar to Bond's red camellias, so similar that it feels like they only exist to mock Q.

There's an intake of breath from Bond, like a gasp. “Do you know what those mean?”

“What do you mean?” Q tilts his head curiously. “The flowers? No.”

“How long have you been seeing them?” Bond asks, and it floods Q with relief how he doesn't sound like the therapists his parents paid for him to talk to. Bond is curious, just as he was curious about Q's musical inclination and his more unusual ideas for hiding weapons under plain clothes.

“All my life.”

“And you never thought to research flower meanings?” Bond says, looking every bit surprised.

“It felt like cheating,” Q says, shrugging. He used to; he memorized everything he could find on flower language, but ever since his parents died, he never bothered. He put everything in a neat envelope and put the information away in the darkest corner of his mind. “Besides, I don't have to see the flowers to know what I'm feeling.”

“I'm sorry,” Bond says, taking a step closer, and another, and another, only stopping when he's standing in front of Q. “I should have left you a message.”

Q ducks his head, avoiding Bond's eyes, so sincere and warm and _comforting_. He doesn't know what to reply, doesn't want to confirm that Bond was spot on with his apology, so instead, he asks, “Why did you buy me these flowers?”

Bond sits down next to him, close enough that their thighs are touching, but with enough space for Q to know he can leave any time he wants to. “Jonquils mean affection. I figured, since red camillias mean _you're a flame in my heart_ , it was clear how you felt about me.”

Q looks up, hopeful. “And the violets?”

Bond hesitates. “Let's take a chance on happiness.”

It's so absurdly sweet, so romantic, that it startles a laugh out of Q. “Did you spend the whole day reading up on this?”

“Yes,” Bond replies without missing a beat, and Q knows he means it. He took Q out to dinner, let a night go without anything more than cuddling, probably has a bunch of flower-related information stuffed in his brain just so he can understand Q more. He's making an effort and he's doing it for _Q_.

“Bond. James.” Q reaches out to hug Bond, all but melting against him.

“Is that a yes?” Bond asks, hugging back. Q doesn't have to look to know that he's smiling.

Q presses a chaste kiss onto Bond's lips, smiling wickedly as he pulls away. “Of course it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> in order of appearance:
> 
> * cyclamen - resignation; goodbye  
> * oleander - caution  
> * daisy - loyal love (okay, for this bit, i mean bond's loyal love for queen and country)  
> * orange rose - fascination  
> * blue hyacinth - constancy  
> * clematis - mental beauty  
> * white zinnia - goodness  
> * lavender heather - admiration; solitude  
> * orchid - refinement; beautiful lady  
> * betony - surprise  
> * marigold - cruelty; grief  
> * forsythia - anticipation  
> * calla lily - beauty  
> * snapdragon - gracious lady  
> * ivy - fidelity; friendship; affection  
> * petunia - anger  
> * juniper - protection  
> * bluebell - grief  
> * cypress - mourning  
> * red camellia - you're a flame in my heart  
> * white violets - let's take a chance on happiness  
> * jonquil - affection returned  
> * pink camellia - longing for you
> 
>  
> 
> vines are generally for negative emotions and danger. the bluestars or amsonias don't really mean anything but they're pretty and they're the same color as bond's eyes. /o\
> 
> hit me up on [tumblr](http://connerkent.tk/)!


End file.
